With a single white in his pocket,
all his projects for a rousing night in some wild tavern vanished
utterly away. And it was not only pleasure that fled laughing from
his grasp; positive discomfort, positive pain, attacked him as he
stood ruefully before the porch. His perspiration had dried upon
him; and though the wind had now fallen, a binding frost was
setting in stronger with every hour, and be felt benumbed and sick
at heart. What was to be done? Late as was the hour, improbable
as was success, he would try the house of his adopted father, the
chaplain of St. Benoit.
He ran there all the way, and knocked timidly. There was no
answer. He knocked again and again, taking heart with every
stroke; and at last steps were heard approaching from within. A
barred wicket fell open in the iron-studded door, and emitted a
gush of yellow light.
"Hold up your face to the wicket," said the chaplain from within.
"It's only me," whimpered Villon.
"Oh, it's only you, is it?" returned the chaplain; and he cursed
him with foul unpriestly oaths for disturbing him at such an hour,
and bade him be off to hell, where he came from.
"My hands are blue to the wrist," pleaded Villon; "my feet are dead
and full of twinges; my nose aches with the sharp air; the cold
lies at my heart. I may be dead before morning. Only this once,
father, and before God I will never ask again!"
"You should have come earlier," said the ecclesiastic coolly.
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